


eyes open, eyes shut

by freezerjerky



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-08
Updated: 2012-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-30 19:25:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freezerjerky/pseuds/freezerjerky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John doesn't open his eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	eyes open, eyes shut

John wakes up to an eager hand attempting to pull off his belt from behind and the pressure of a body on the bed beside him.

                “You can’t get it off from behind,” he mumbles into the pillow. “What time is it, Shlock?”

                “How articulate of you. It is eight at night, far too early for you to be sleeping, which you of course did not intend to do, as you are lying in bed fully dressed. Likely you returned from shopping to find that I was not home so you decided to have a lie down on the bed. I am home now, and as long as you’re willing, I’m quite in need of you or parts of you at least, to be awake.”

                “So romantic,” he grumbles, but turns over anyway.

                Deft fingers work on his belt, unbuckling it, then move to his trousers to undo his flies.  Instead of continuing with the rest of his trousers, Sherlock slides his hand under John’s (untucked) shirt, slowly feeling the trail of golden hair leading to his navel, then following it back down to his waistband. He smirks as he removes his hand and flicks open the buttons on John’s shirt. John does not open his eyes.

                Sherlock retreats momentarily, quickly divesting himself of his own clothes. This is relatively new to them, should still be a show, but John never shows interest in opening his eyes. Or rather, John often makes an extensive effort to keep his eyes closed through as much of the process as possible. (Sherlock needs more data, but not as much in those moments as he needs to touch John, to please him.) When John hears Sherlock open the bedside drawer, he attempts to remove his trousers. Sherlock slaps his hands away playfully, and grabs his legs, raising his hips and pulling trousers and pants off with reverence. There’s a moment of admiration, of silent appraisal and approval before Sherlock descends, kissing his way up from John’s right hip, trailing all the way until their lips meet.

                There is no hesitation; both men kiss hungrily and desperately, fighting with teeth and tongues to crawl into each other. Not to dominate, but to complement and merge, even as it becomes more heated, exchanging small bites between exploring the crevices of each other’s mouth. It’s so new, and John’s left hand is in Sherlock’s hair and his right is on his arse and he just wants to look, but he’s not going to. John groans when he feels the contact of Sherlock’s erection against his own, breaking the kiss with his need. Sherlock busies himself instead with kissing and biting his earlobe while the hand previously on Sherlock’s arse moves to his left nipple, causing a reciprocal groan.

                Sherlock’s retaliation is to slide his hand down and take John’s cock in hand. He gives it a few strokes before moving his thumb to the head and rubbing the precome that had welled there against the slit.

                “Christ,” John grits out, arching up.

                Sherlock nuzzles against him, rutting his own prick against John’s thigh before continuing with his hand. His fingers move away from John’s cock, gently stroking his balls and reaching behind, gently circling the sensitive ring of muscle.

                “You woke me up,” John says, suppressing a groan, “don’t think you have the right to tease me.”

                “You offered me a long-term invitation to your bed; I believe that includes a right to tease so long as it benefits you in the long run.”

                With an almost chaste peck to John’s lips, Sherlock slides down his body, settling between his thighs and leaning down to place a similar kiss to his cockhead and another to the puckered hole before withdrawing completely. John only knows what is coming next when he hears the distinct noise of a cap popping. He prepares himself for the welcome intrusion, feeling the slide of a single finger inside him. His first instinct is still to retract, but he soon finds himself rocking down unto the touch, as the digit makes contact with his prostate. The process continues slowly, his body still adjusting to the idea of this happening at all, let alone with regularity. By the time Sherlock is working three fingers inside of him, he scrambles his arms blindly, aiming to grab onto something.

                “Please,” he cries out. “I want you, I need you.”

                The withdrawal is sudden, leaving John feeling empty and exposed. He wants to look, but he can’t bring himself to just yet.

                “Hips up,” Sherlock commands.

                John lifts up his hips as Sherlock places a pillow underneath them. It is only a matter of waiting, and John feels his whole body shiver as he hears the cap pop open again and the sounds of Sherlock readying himself. He feels the push at his entrance, and despite his body’s natural desire to shy away, he firmly plants his feet down, feeling the slow sinking of Sherlock’s cock into his body. They pause for a moment once he’s fully in, until John can’t hold back a slight fluttering of his eyes and Sherlock begins to move, starting with slow, deep thrusts. John lifts his legs up and wraps them around his waist, allowing their two bodies to be as close as possible.

                John’s hands grasp at the sheets as he starts moaning, at this rate, every third thrust or so is hitting home and he’s not far from coming. Sherlock pulls most of the way out before re-entering, this time at a faster pace, taking John’s prick in his hand and pumping at the same pace.  John has started a litany of “fucks” between gasps and groans and even Sherlock’s usually articulate mouth can’t bother with more than an occasional “John.”

                Soon, John is coming, his cries a totally incoherent rendition of his lover’s name as his release spills between them, onto his stomach. The sensations of John’s orgasm around him bring Sherlock over the edge. He slumps over slightly, feeling the shaky legs around him unwinding themselves. He pulls out gently, allowing himself a few moments to lie back on the bed before leaning up to kiss John’s two eyelids, still firmly shut as though asleep. He wordlessly rises, grabbing John’s discarded pants and using them to clean up.

                “I’ve to do work downstairs,” he says, pulling on his dressing gown. “If you don’t come back down tonight, text me if you don’t want me to sleep here.”

                John opens his eyes fully for the first time when the door to his room closes. It feels lonely, it feels wrong. He wishes he could have seen that face staring down at him, but he can’t bring himself to. Now, for some reason, possibly nothing more than an experiment, he’s left without any consolation. Instead of dwelling on this, he makes his way out of the bed, and makes his way to his dresser, pulling out a pair of pyjama bottoms and a soft cotton t-shirt. He pulls his shirt the rest of the way off and drops it into the hamper, as well as shoving the remainder of the discarded clothes in with it. After pulling his clean clothes on, he makes his way down the stairs.

                Relief floods through his body when he sees Sherlock lying on the sofa in his thinking pose. Sherlock is dressed in trousers and a crisp white shirt already, and has his dressing gown on. John feels underdressed and exposed.

                “You’re angry,” John says, and the words feel odd in his mouth. He’s used to being on the other side of this conversation.

                “I’m thinking,” is all Sherlock replies.

                It’s definitely not a denial.

                “If I’m doing something that you don’t like you actually have to tell me, you know. Not all of us are ultra-perceptive geniuses. This is new and I don’t want to fuck it up because you’re being an idiot about me apparently being an idiot.”

                This time there was no reply. John stood for a few moments more, before attempting to make room for himself on the sofa. Sherlock does not object to John picking up his legs and placing them back in his lap. He leans back, deeply sighing, and grabs Sherlock’s right foot, gently stroking up and down his insole.

                “Our sexual relations can’t progress much more if you don’t open your eyes for more than a few brief seconds,” Sherlock says at length.

                “Oh.”

                “I know that it isn’t a problem with your attraction to me. Your natural reactions throughout the act make it fairly obvious, and you’re more than willing to offer yourself to me even when it’s mildly inconvenient.  I’m also aware that you’re handling several years of masturbatory fantasies. However, we’ve had relations four times, and you want to top – which requires you to actually see- but you won’t.  You’re doing it for an emotional reason, probably related to your fantasies.”

                “I’m adjusting. You didn’t say anything about it the first times.”

                “I don’t notice what your face looks like when I’m busy at a lower part of your anatomy, or when you’re positioned with your face away from me. I deduced your eyes weren’t open very much, but I didn’t know it would be a problem for me.”

                “It’s like. It’s,” John takes a deep breath before starting, “when you were gone I thought about it, about you. I did before then, but it wasn’t that much of a problem. When I’d open my eyes before then you’d be in your room or out wherever the hell you go but when you were gone you were dead. And now you’re not. You’re here.”

                He stops, his hand clutching Sherlock’s calf in an effort to further verify this.

                “John.”

                “And you’re saying you want me and that I can have you, and it’s so surreal it feels like a fantasy. I’m afraid, I guess. When I open my eyes, you won’t be there and like this. I have to open my eyes sometime, right? What better thing to see than the verification it was all real, the absolute guarantee that you were there.”

                “Well, we have a conflict of interest here, it would appear, as I have a very solid three years of fantasies to act upon and most of them require you to see me. Furthermore, sex, while pleasurable, currently has no more value to me than being with you.”

                John smiles and slides his hand further up Sherlock’s leg, resting it gingerly on his thigh. Sherlock, in return leans up, pulling his legs towards himself, but resettles John’s hand.

                “What I am going to ask,” Sherlock begins, “is that you trust me. That I’m really me, and that I’m going to be there the whole time. You have some ridiculous unfailing faith in me for all the wrong reasons, so believe in me for this, even if it is base and human.”

                John nods and leans in for a kiss.

                “You are going to make us some dinner,” Sherlock commands as he breaks away, “and we will watch some telly or whatever pedestrian normal flatmate thing you want to do tonight, then I am going to take you to bed for the second time tonight.”

 

                John is not used to being exposed like this. They are in Sherlock’s room, which is even more barren than John’s room, as both had been left to gather dust for three years. One of them just happened to have an occupant for part of them. (The bedsit was just as dusty and dead, until Sherlock swept back in and was knocked out cold on the floor; until he persistently visited for two weeks before gathering the courage to take what has always been his right on the creaky double bed; until John left it again for the flat which was slowly becoming alive.) Sherlock had promptly told John to strip, dismissing it as “no surprise to him and irrelevant in this situation” but then clarified that “in other situations, however, he will be quite delighted to take this at a slower pace.” Now, he is sat on Sherlock’s bed, propped up on pillows, still soft but eager, and watching the other man shrug out of his dressing gown.

                “If you close your eyes for any other reason than to blink or because of ecstatic pleasure, and I will know the difference, I’ll stop whatever I am doing at the time. I will resume, of course, as soon as your eyes snap open,” Sherlock explains, untucking his shirt. “This part is largely selfish on my part¸ but also to level our situations a bit. I’m rather vain and-”

                “You want me to fawn over your impeccable physique?”

                Sherlock shoots him a certain look, before beginning to undo his buttons. He moves confidently, quickly undoing his shirt and casting it aside. John feels himself begin to harden, the heat and flush of blood going to his groin shooting through his body.

                “Glad to know you’re as attracted to me physically as you implied.”

                John grabs one of the pillows and throws it, purposely missing, but still smiling triumphantly. Sherlock simply rolls his eyes and resumes, unbuttoning his trousers and pulling them down. He is left standing, still as confident as before, though only dressed in pants. When John spots the dark spot in front, the leaking of precome, he longs to call the other man into bed. It is obvious Sherlock notices this, as he strips out of his last item of clothing hastily, revealing the last few pieces of himself.  Before moving he presents himself, allowing John a view of the new territory open to him.

                “Your legs, Christ,” John exclaims. His eyes travel up, concentrating on Sherlock’s cock. “Turn around.”

                Surprisingly enough, Sherlock does, allowing John an appraising look at his arse, but little more before he’s in the bed and on top of John, kissing around his bad shoulder and touching every place he can (everywhere John can see his hands grabbing him, marking him, claiming him. This is a selfish act just as much as one for John, not one just about sex either, but possession and even perhaps love.)

                “You’ve a marvellous arse,” John comments, “and your eyes are they always this wide when you’re-”

                “I guess you’ll have to find out,” Sherlock growls before claiming John’s mouth with his own.

                This won’t last long. John’s eyes are open even as he kisses, roaming over what he sees when Sherlock thinks he can’t see anything; the firm grip on his wrist, the soft lashes resting right above Sherlock’s pronounced cheeks. There is a hand, reaching down, that grabs his cock and he lets out a groan, closing his eyes for the first time in what feels like forever. He can’t bring himself to keep them closed, he wrenches them open because he’s missed too much already.

                There was a long time where it didn’t matter whether his eyes were open or closed, because there was no one there. Now there is maybe a lifetime to always be seeing, always with eyes open. Sherlock continues kissing him, this time trailing down his neck, alternating between nips and chaste pecks, before biting gently, making John’s hips buck up into his. His hand continues on John’s prick, working it faster than before, and John does nothing to control his own upward thrusts.

                “I’m going to come, god I’m going to,” John cries out.

                For a moment, it is hard for him to see, as his vision seems to explode in a swirl of a heady feeling, and the faint traces of a smiling face looming above him. He is barely done, still partially hard, when he snakes a hand down to take hold of Sherlock’s prick and has the other man on the edge after a few pulls. It is at last, the combination of the sensation of the hand on his prick and the still wide-blown pupils of John’s eyes that send Sherlock over, spilling his release unto John’s stomach before he slumps over bonelessly. They lie for a few moments, panting in the afterglow.

                “We should move before we stick together,” John laughs, the rumble of his chest sending pleasant vibrations through his partner.

                “Shower.”

                They make their way quietly to the bathroom and into the shower. John feels as though he could fall asleep at any moment, but he still doesn’t bother to close his eyes. He washes Sherlock, in an attempt to further familiarize himself with the body he had been depriving himself of experiencing fully. It’s pale, and sinewy, marked by much smaller scars than John’s own, but too many of them are recent for him to be okay with this. His facial expression looks softer than what John is used to, but his eyes, just a few moments ago wide and nearly black with lust, are already back to their appraising accuracy. The shower is brief, and when they step out, they help each other towel off, before Sherlock, in a rare moment of humanity, overcome with sleep, takes John’s hand and leads him to bed.

                They climb into the bed, clean and naked. John keeps his eyes open, stares at Sherlock’s face for a few moments until the other man draws him to his chest. He closes his eyes and falls asleep. If everything works out alright, that face will be the first thing he sees when he wakes up. He just has to trust Sherlock, which he’s always done. __


End file.
